


Peacekeeper

by ThePiningTrees



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Background Grogu and Din moments, Episode: s02e01 The Marshal, Friends to Lovers, Idiots in Love, M/M, Multi, Oopsies I’m PAUSING this fic until my research mode is back, Pining, Planet Tatooine (Star Wars), Post Season 2, Sidequest, Slow Burn, Stripping, Tusken Raiders Culture (Star Wars), WIP, lol, my brain gave out so now I’m back to writing trash, tagging for future chapters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:42:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28198584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePiningTrees/pseuds/ThePiningTrees
Summary: The Marshal tries his hand at negotiating other ceasefires with the Tusken clans. It goes splendidly, predictably to shit.Din Djarin falls back on a lifetime of bounty hunting and honoring the Resol’nare (and subconsciously following where his heart tells him to go).Boba Fett couldn’t care less about the internal disputes amongst the ever disputing Mandalorians—but he could make sure to benefit from the chasm.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Boba Fett, Din Djarin/Boba Fett/Cobb Vanth, Din Djarin/Cobb Vanth
Comments: 24
Kudos: 193





	1. Fragile peace

**Author's Note:**

> I have been thinking.... ever since the Marshal appeared. And then Boba. Now when the season has ended the plot is taking shape. Putting the first chapter out there to test the waters.

The landing site was sequestered under thick green canopies. The humidity levels measured by Din’s hygrometer forecasted that his back would be drenched in sweat within a picosecond after stepping outside the hull. Din sighed and adjusted his stance.   
  


A quick scan of the area showed no other signs of life forms besides the pilot of the Slave 1, Boba Fett. The rest of the crew had left the two of them to speak privately. It was a relief to discover—his head still pounded and him puking in a bucket didn’t require witnesses. On the other hand, Din wasn’t quite sure how to act around the other man, a man commanding the authority of an elder. He supposed they were both in exile now, sharing a fate Din had regarded as worse than death. _A man in stolen armor and a foundling bringing dishonor upon his people._

His hand hovered over the foreign object attached to his belt, fingers flexing to rid the sudden tremor. 

Boba was tending to his ship sporting a frown of concentration, the sight so reminiscent of Din’s own daily ritual that he felt inevitably pulled in his direction. Din’s approach did not compel Boba to look up from his work. Though he did acknowledge him with a grunt. 

”Can I help?” Din appraised the tools and the position of Boba’s hands, gauging what he could from these visual cues. He was a self-taught mechanic. What he knew he had learned by trial and error, to be honest, with the Razor crest suffering the consequences. Most of his knowledge originated from his refusal to let droids be part of the process.

”Have you decided?” Boba asked with an indifferent tone. 

”Decided what?” Din blinked, regretting the harsh response. 

Boba’s gaze leveled Din with mild reprimand. ”You don’t need to ask, you know. I will take you to the place you need to go.” He jutted his chin at the piece on Din’s hip. ”Depending on how fast you are at making decisions. You’re packing too much heat to be out in the open.” 

Din’s mind reeled. ”I can’t just run off.” 

Boba’s brow furrowed. “It might be your only viable option.”

He made it sound so simple. Din hesitated. The Outer Rim was brimming with ’opportunities’ for a man to disappear under the radar. Cara Dune had attempted it on Sorgan; the Mandalorians had established a haven beneath the streets of Nevarro. Some men ended up serving time in the Karthon Chop Fields or left charting the jungles on Morak. Men, women and children met worse fates orchestrated by one warlord or another. Din wondered what had befallen Fett, left for dead on the sands of Tatooine and returning in good health with Tusken weaponry. Perhaps there lied the solution to Din’s dilemma: he ought to revisit the desert and the simple life he craved.

”There… there is a place.” He had to speak up twice. The last place he’d felt safe.

”I will bring you there,” Boba stated. 

*

The desert planes of Tatooine brought mixed emotions as the two Mandalorian-clad men landed in the scorching sand. Din’s visor shielded his eyes from the punishing rays of the two suns. A welcome relief even though he knew from previous visits that his species handled the climate relatively well. The Tatooine born and bred marshal he befriended last time… his general sunshine disposition had hammered home the fact. 

The hangar 3-5 at the spaceport of Mos Eisley were not far from the drop-off site, but he denied himself a visit to head mechanic Peli Motto. With a heavy heart he realized that he couldn’t risk her knowing his location, on the off chance that he was tracked down. Instead he waited in the shadows as Boba Fett bought a speeder from an anonymous face. Din had gawed in trance as Fett discarded the Mandalorian armor plates beforehand and exchanged for a common robe. No matter how acceptant he had been of the fact that not all Mandalorians honored the Creed like Din’s tribe, he struggled to get past the initial shock. 

The two loaded the machinecraft with provision bargained from the locals on the outskirts of Mos Eisley, and headed for the Dune sea at first twilight. 

*

_How far did a marshal’s jurisdiction reach in the Dune sea, and how far was too far?_ Cobb Vanth wondered, wearied and listless from the seemingly endless ride through the desolate landscape. _Where does one simply have to draw a line in the sand?_ He laughed at his own joke. Clever. Clever marshal. The puns might just be why the townsfolk of Mos Pelgo voted in his favor, even when the decisions he made as of late put them all at considerable risk. 

He flinched in discomfort as the huge bantha under his thighs side-stepped and stumbled in the deep sand. The width of the bantha’s back tested the span as well as the pain-threshold of the marshal’s groin muscles. And his patience, which was known to be relatively short-lived. 

He glared at the Tusken in front: ”Hey, do you mind looking where you go? Where did you learn how to ride?” 

The Tusken raider had spent the better part of the day with his legs dangling on either side of the beast’s slimmer neck. It was an unfair seating arrangement and the marshal felt cheated. ”We’re switching places at the nearest break. Do you hear me, K’rr… Kururr… _kriff_ ,” He spat, losing the battle with the strange tongue-twister of a name. 

The uli-lescent Tusken turned his head slightly over his shoulder at the sound of his name being butchered to a recognizable expletive. The prince, for he was the son of the local clan leader, stared him down through the metallic tubes fastened to his face-mask. Vanth stared back stubbornly, learning by each day that the clan wouldn’t bother to kill him over an insult. If that weren’t true, his bones would’ve been withering in the sand several, _several_ insults ago. 

”.......” the Tusken said. To Cobb’s ears it sounded like another unintelligible gurgle; a cross between someone aggressively clearing phlegm from their throat and the mournful braying from one of these beasts of burden. 

He suspected differently, though. He suspected that the Tusken was trying to teach him how to pronounce his name right. 

”Krr… Krrur’tlr,” Cobb repeated. Or tried to repeat. ”Is the ’t’ silent?”

His Tusken co-pilot gave off a series of encouraging grunts that somehow ended with a condescending snort. He turned back to face the path. 

”Little punk. You don’t scare me,” Cobb told the Tusken’s vibrating shoulders. He could've sworn he heard muffled laughter under there. 

*

Mos Pelgo hadn’t changed its outer appearance much since Din’s last visit to the mining settlement. He left Boba to watch the perimeter and positioned himself as close to the settlement as he could. He brought the binoculars to his visor and observed the townsfolk going about their day: cleaning their vapor spires, crossing the street from one adobe building to another and chatting idly with their neighbors: all in all giving off an air of peace and tranquility that most have lasted some time. He wondered what their reaction would be if he made his presence known. Would they remember the mando who twisted their hand in order to negotiate a ceasefire with the Tusken tribe? Not that he did it by himself—Vanth had been the one to unite the town and by the looks of it he had succeeded in maintaining the truce. 

Din rested his wrists on his lap, thoughtfully passing the binoculars from one hand to the other. He wanted to spot a flash of red fabric in the bleak colors of main street. Nothing big, just a confirmation that Cobb Vanth was alive and well. He ended up waiting in still indecisiveness until the second sun was setting and he lost the light. 

There were no signs of the marshal. 

*

_Home_. Home is where your heart is and not the kriffin’ sand dune where you lay your head to rest. The marshal’s heart swelled and singed upon his return to Mos Pelgo. His neighbors greeted him with cheers and waves, and with more than one expression of relief-surprise. Cobb dismounted the bantha with an ease ingrained in his muscle-memory since childhood. He landed with a wince and a warning twinge in his ankle, because Ar-Amu forbid he was allowed to forget his age.

He waved a demonstratively cheerful good-bye to Krr… Krrur’tlr and his dignified associates (punks, they were all punks), and went to the cantina to grab a bite to eat. He was very much looking forward to a bland version of the womp rat he had eaten roasted over fire for he didn’t know how long. 

”It’s good to have you back in one piece,” Kamnor Siqquq, the weequay bartender acknowledged and Cobb perked up, hoping for a glass on the house. Kamnor’s face fell flat. ”No.” 

”Well, then.” Cobb raised an invisible glass to toast his friend. ”To your stinginess, old man. And to your courage for making an enemy out of the law enforcer.” 

“I’ve got you covered, marshal.” Jo plonked down on the stool to his right, scooting her hard-earned credits across the bar. Her friends were crowding behind her, reaching to slap Cobb on the back. 

“Jo, no… you don’t have to.” Cobb felt touched. “Those should go to your savings.” He knew that the enterprising young woman was saving up to start her own business once her apprenticeship in Mos Eisley ended. ”Are you even old enough to be in here?” 

“You worry about us too much, _old man_ ,” Jo retorted with a wink towards Kamnor. 

Glasses were being distributed at an unusual fast pace after that. Jo grinned and raised her glass high above their heads. “To the marshal!”

”To Mos Pelgo,” he corrected and clinked her glass.

His belly was full and he was pleasantly buzzing from the generousness shown by his fellow patrons by the time he walked himself home, singing under his breath with the occasional jarring falsetto. 

Cobb adored his homestead, located at a perfect distance from the town to allow him some privacy and still live within shouting distance. The house was camouflaged against the sedimentary rock layers it rested against, with a flat rooftop instead of the traditional dome. He would eat his dinner on there most evenings with a view over the small canyon and the starry sky. 

Undressing required a degree of visuomotor coordination that Cobb had neglected during his time on banthaback. ”Easy does it,” he soothed as his hand missed the doorpost and he nearly crashed face-down in the living room. 

The inside of the house was dark but it would be contradictory to his desire to sleep to turn on a light. He didn’t need his vision to notice the massive amounts of sand raining down when he removed his shirt. And the thorny plants. 

Vanth had one foot stuck in his pant leg and was bent over to unlace his boot when a discrete cough managed to reach his attention. 

  
*  
  


The marshal switched on the lights most urgently. An ornamental vase suffered the irreparable consequences by being on the wrong spot at the wrong time. 

Cobb’s pistol was in the hand that wasn’t bleeding from a cut, and he aimed wildly between the two shrouded figures seated in his living room. At last he decided to aim at the Mandalorian in the silver helmet. 

”Din? Din Djarin…? What the blazes, is that you under there?” 

He knew enough from wearing his own helmet when a Mandalorian was looking straight at you, and this Mandalorian was practically locking eyes with him. They both were. Wait. Cobb aimed at the other one. 

”Why are you wearing my suit?” He accused, though he sounded less accusing and more incredulous. The muffled mirth under the visor was telling. 

”Is this the man you want to have your back?” The man in Vanth’s old armor chuckled. 

Cobb’s gaze jumped from the green helmet back to the Mando who was the spitting image of his friend Din, now sitting in his sofa with knees spread and no weapon in sight, gaze still trained on the marshal.

”It’s me,” Din confirmed, in a soft cadence Cobb instantly recognized. ”Didn’t mean to startle you, but you were...” he gestured minutely with a finger, a polite allusion to Cobb’s state of undress.

Relief washed over the marshal. And embarrassment. He brought down his hand to a strategical place to recover some modesty. ”I guess you caught me with my pants down.” 

He flinched when the Green helmet arose from his seat. ”Well. I’m hitting the sack. I suggest you two crazy kids do the same but if you decide to catch up—please, try to keep it down.”

What? Cobb had no idea what he was talking about. At all. He needed to sit down. 


	2. The fugitive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m relieved that you are enjoying this story so here—have a 1 am chapter with Din and Vanth dancing around each other like two oblivious di’kuts in love.

Despite a lifetime of using tactical concealment and the nasty element of surprise in his favor, Din felt like a _chakaaruc di’kut_ (idiot with poor ethics) when the marshal shed his shirt in the dark, unwittingly in front of an audience. _Should’ve thought this through_. After all, Cobb Vanth wasn’t a criminal; was as far from one of his bounties as a man had the capacity to be, despite the singing under the moons. The sound of a corroded belt-buckle slipping loose brought back the confusion Din felt the first time he saw Vanth out of his contraband armor. 

It was the first night in town, when the sighting of the Krayt dragon brought the marshal and the mando to the proverbial negotiating table. As a professional courtesy Din and the little runt were invited to dinner with Vanth as the cook, the host and the warden. It got late, and he was subsequently offered the guest-room to spend the night. 

’Might as well,’ Vanth said with a shrug, tending to the dishes to show Din the level of leniency he was prepared to give. ’Got to keep my eye on ya’ regardless. And the lodging in town leaves a lot to be desired. Your kid looks like he needs a good night’s sleep on a mattress that isn’t brimming with pests.’ 

The message wasn’t subtle, emphasized by him still wearing full armor and holstered blaster in the privacy of his own home. But Din understood. Intelligence was his own assurance as a bounty hunter. By accepting Vanth’s offer on the surface level he was in an ideal position to recon and form an informed opinion of what kind of man he was entering a business partnership with. 

And, the brave _verd’ika_ sleeping on his shoulder would be spared the journey back to town at a time when massiffs and other nocturnal predators were most active. 

He felt the full impact of the marshal’s scrutiny when he returned to the kitchen after putting the kid down, a gaze that seemed to catalogue Din far beneath the beskar plates. At first Din was tempted to retaliate in the same fashion he did when Gor Koresh slid his eye down his beskar and told him how he would peel it off his corpse. Din received a lot of attention similar to the abyssin’s, but the marshal’s... the marshal’s was distinctly different. Cobb’s _dral_ hazel eyes were regarding Din with mirth; lacking in malice and glinting with childish curiosity. Like he had no idea of the breath caught in Din’s throat; how he had to fight the urge to jab his fingers underneath his helmet in order to breathe. 

‘What detergents do you use?’ Cobb asked, casually leaning his hip against the counter, ‘I could use a Mandalorian’s household remedy for a squeaky-clean suit.’ 

He really could. Vanth’s suit was worn to shreds; the tubes needed changing and the steel was due for a paint job. The man wearing it was lean-muscled and agile-looking. He looked like he could hold his own in a fight, regardless of allegiance.

’A Mandalorian wouldn’t neglect the maintenance of his armor. Doing so is in contradiction to the Manda; an affront to what we are.’ Din bristled. ‘You’re _aruetii_ , which means you’re not worthy of the armor you _stole_.’

First rule every ‘ad was taught long before the age of maturity at 13: wear your armor with honor. 

‘Oh, but I didn’t steal,’ Cobb waggled a finger, a frown creasing his forehead, ‘We’ve been over this, Mando. I traded it in good faith and I’m prepared to give it back to you. Do you question my word?’

‘You’re still an eye-sore. Your armor is falling apart...’ There was a sink and access to water. Din stepped forward and tugged at the chest-plate attached at the marshal’s waist, responding to Vanth’s request and to provoke: to bait him to drop the good samaritan act. He released the straps on both sides with brisk fingers, feeling the marshal’s suck in his stomach under his skimming touch. 

’Hey!’ Cobb protested, clinging on to his plate like a kid who refused to let go of his toy. ’I thought we agreed—’

’I’ll clean it for you,’ Din clarified belatedly, lifting the plate from Cobb’s shoulders, ‘Take off the rest.’

Cobb, rendered speechless by the offer, stripped off his suit once they relocated to the workshop he kept in the basement. 

’This better not be a trap…’ He jutted a finger. 

Din didn’t move a muscle when the finger came wafting less than an inch in front of his dark visor, aside from the corner of his mouth. He found that he was quite enjoying the incredulity and poorly concealed humor written across Cobb’s face. 

He also enjoyed the cool temperature in the basement. He put down the plates and equipment in the order in which Cobb handed them over, ceremonially placing them on the workbench. Cobb watched as Din carefully inspected the damaged helmet in his leather-gloved hands, touching a worn-down fingertip to a circular dent in the front. The original wearer of the suit had led a warrior’s life and had most likely died in it. Holding the empty helmet brought on an odd feeling of reverence, of _aay'han_ for those ancestors who had fought and died in order for Din Djarin and his brethren to scrape along as bounty hunters for the highest bidder.

’This is nowhere close to pure beskar.’ 

Cobb rolled his eyes. ’So the bonkos saddled me with a defected prototype. I don’t care, it got the job done. The Red Keys sure weren’t able to tell the difference…mind you, they were running for their lives at the time.’

Din removed the flamethrower tubing from the jetpack. Cobb grimaced exaggeratedly when he was presented with a greasy, clogged up tube-end. He better consider the full scope of his neglect. 

’Huh.’ Cobb squinted at the dark visor separating them, where he was met with not just his own reflection but an accusing glare. ” I don’t understand. What are you accusing me of?’

“What am I—? You’re lucky you haven’t _exploded_.” Din sat down on a stool and reached for a long bottle-brush. _Di’kut._

Cobb laughed, not even bothering to hide how much he enjoyed Din’s suffering. ’Right. I’m heading upstairs—make your bunk for when you feel like calling it a day. You’ve earned it, after polishing my junk n’ all.’

Din ceased his diligent cleaning of the jetpack. Cobb fled the basement before his response had reached a coherent sentence. 

That was months ago. Now Din stood at a sensible distance in Cobb’s kitchen, watching the man’s bare back flex as the marshal switched on the water cistern installed above the sink and drank his fill. Sensible in the sense that he’d infiltrated the private quarters of a lawman, and sensible in the sense that the man in question was _laratyc_ (drunk) half-way to _batnor_ (drunk _er,_ i.e. flat on his back _)_. Vanth would’ve kissed the doorpost a second time if Din hadn’t caught his arm and supported his detour to the kitchen. 

“I never showed you… how to shower in two cups of water,” Cobb muttered. “Here’s a step-by-step demonstration. _First—_ you do the hair.” He poured approximately two drops of water over his scalp and scrubbed at the road-dirt and the grime. “Rinse and repeat... Then you go to sleep...” 

He swayed and Din shifted foot. It was a courteous precaution to hover close-by but in a moment Vanth would turn around and demand answers, after the initial shock had dissipated with the dirty water. 

And there were things Din wanted to say. There were also questions he didn’t want to, _refused to,_ answer. 

*

Cobb bought his time. He might be intoxicated but he wasn’t born yesterday all right? He recognized a fugitive when he saw one, and Din Djarin and his associate were the poster boys of Bad news. 

He wasn’t principally against the harboring of fugitives, quite the contrary. A common and recurrent scenario in Mos Pelgo was the regular folks on the run from slavers. Cobb offered shelter and assisted any way he saw how, provided they weren’t hostile. It was a matter close to heart and came from a place of _been there, survived_. It was the least he could do, in the position he held.

Granted, he survived thus far due to a heightened vigilance and attention to detail that saved him from trusting the wrong people. He remained confident in his initial assessment of Din Djarin; the one he’d formed when the Mando first stepped off his speeder in front of Kamnur’s cantina. Cobb was brought to a thoughtful pause when the baby climbed out of the saddle-bag and totted after the mandalorian with not an ounce of fear in its inquisitive, agog chirps and wobbling gait. The little runt seemed to regard the mando as his guardian; his primary safe harbor in the galaxy. That level of trust mattered on a planet where law and order existed as mere mythical concepts. It mattered to Cobb.

Sure, he trusted Djarin with his life (now where the hell did that come from?) but his partner—wearing the ghost of Vanth’s vigilante incarnation—hadn’t given Cobb a good reason to trust him. No, the only course of action displayed by the Green helmet was vaguely insulting him and set up camp in his yard. 

Cobb fumbled the towel in his hand. It fell to the floor. Cobb sighed. “Why are you here, Mando?”

Din got closer. “We’ll talk about this in the morning,” he deflected softly.

”Hell we ain’t. We’re—”

Din shocked him by slinging Cobb’s arm over his shoulders. 

Din was disobliging _and_ instrumental in bringing Cobb closer to his bed. Cobb relaxed and hugged the mattress, a small but significant gesture of gratitude. It also felt so soft to his cheek. Cobb reached out, hand skimming the back of Din’s helmet-head. “I grew fond of you the last time you were here. Where’s the little womp?”

And there it was, the dreaded question. Din swallowed with effort. “Lay down.”

Din lingered in the doorway and watched the sleeping marshal. Marveling the fact that the fool was still alive, to be frank. Cobb was either more naive now compared to when they first met, or Din was the marshal’s blind spot tonight. Considering the new target on his back, he knew that he didn’t deserve the vote of confidence. 

  
  
  
  



	3. The Ally

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We will return to the Tusken prince Krr… Kriffthjgjkl, but first a little fanservice to myself :) Let me know what you think! Anyone else out there married to Boba Fett?

”Mando.”

Boba Fett directed the other man’s attention to the steep incline on their left, where the sand dune rested against a rocky ridge. The sun Tatoo 1 was bleeding over the red-striped canyon belt. ”There’s a decent view from up there.”

Din agreed. He had been walking out the door before dawn intent to sweep the perimeter alone when Fett rose from his tent like a vengeful spirit and announced that he couldn’t sleep either. Boba gripped the end of the long gaderffii in the dark, a tip-off that he was considering using it. Din almost fell into the old morning routine back home, when his brothers and sisters would offer to wake him up with a smarting wack in the head. Nothing had been as exhilarating as the close-combat training sessions—make that the sneak attack improvised training sessions—of his youth. 

He started the ignition on Vanth’s speeder and expected a blow to his back that never came. 

Instead, the two set out to scout the desert in a wide perimeter, both of them pretending that they didn’t consider the marshal’s homestead as their permanent base. Din was nervous, when he gave himself permission to check in with his reactions. He knew damn well that Mos Pelgo was a terrible site to defend against an airborn enemy, considering how it was situated in the desert with no cover. The strategically sound decision had been to remain in the jungle they just left, or find a backwater forested planet far from the trade routes. 

Boba Fett feigned indifference. Wise man. They climbed the last distance to the top of the ridge and was met with a breathtaking view of the Dune Sea at dawn: pink sky, one and a half glowing orbs, and miles and miles of untouched sand and tragedies buried deep underneath; in that moment it was hard to imagine how the planet was a hotbed for the most immoral chakaars and ge’hutuuns in the galaxy, now more than ever after the death of the reigning Hutt, Jabba Desilijic Tuire. 

”Heading back,” the larger man decided after a prolonged and uneventful silence.

A tendril of dread laced up Din’s spine. ”I’ll head out to the Tuskens we passed. Trade some information.” 

Boba nodded, though he hardly cared now when he got another goal in mind. ”My advice; better trade it for breakfast.”

  
*  
  


When the second sun reached the canyon, Din sat vigil at the other rim. An attentive Jawa would’ve spotted his location thanks to the rays mingling with the beskar lending it a silver shine. 

Din tilted his head back and savored the last breath of fresh air before his filtration system clogged up with sand particles and heat. He was grateful that another night had passed, the fifth night since he saw the kid for the last time. He wondered why it felt like time had ceased to move forward entirely., why his heart remained shattered. The raw pain of handing Grogu over to someone else’s arms was further soiled by the sense that he had walked all over the tenets of Resol’nare. 

Why? He had never formally stated to know Grogu as his child, never uttered the adopting phrase he overheard as a youngling in the covert: _Ni kur’tayl gai sa’ad,_ I know your name as my child. 

It had felt damn special though, to learn the little guy’s name at last and to utter it out loud. He thought he would never grow tired of watching Grogu respond with alertness and contagious joy. The sentence had been on the tip of his tongue: _Ni kur’tayl gai sa’ad, ni kur’tayl gai sa’ad, cyar’ika. Mhi solus tome,_ Grogu. We are one even when we are apart. 

Din looked to the sky and wondered if those words would bring comfort to the child, if it was in his power to transmit them across worlds. 

He recalled how Vanth in an air of confidentiality had pointed out the suns to an intently listening Grogu: 

‘That’s Tatoo 1,’ he said, and the child chirped in response, ‘And you know what that is—that’s Tatoo 2. Yes, I’m as shocked as you are. We’ve got two suns and those are the names we settled with. Creativity certainly doesn’t wait for the perfect moment down here on Tatooine, does it?’ He turned to Din, standing a short distance from the pair. ‘And I’m at least three generations Tatooinian so I’m allowed to bitch about the place.’ 

The kid spotted Din and reached out his hands in a by then familiar gesture. Cobb transferred the kid to perch on Din’s arm and leered from the corner of his eye. ’You’re important to him.’

Din adjusted the kid’s collar with a finger, tickling his chin at the same time. He still felt his heart pound in his chest when the child demanded to be close. ’I feed him. He’s observant.’

’Yeah. That must be it.’

*

Breakfast was tense. Vanth kept to his side of the kitchen, wary of the not so traditional Mandalorian with a face only a mother could love, covered in a mottled carpet of scars. Where he earned those scars and how he escaped with his life was a story Cobb wasn’t sure he wanted to hear. Not this early in the morning, at least. 

Cobb took a sip of his thin soup. Boba Fett took a nibble off his yai’yai bar and managed to look like a barely domesticated massiff gnawing on a bantha-bone. 

“Your friend stole my speeder.” Cobb chose to affiliate Din as a friend of this gangster here rather than his own. He reached this mature decision in stages. Stage 1: Woke up at the ass-crack of first dawn to the unmistakable splutter of the modified podracer engine that he, Jo and Rosht spent months perfecting—not to mention the parts Jo had “borrowed” from her employer’s scrapyard back in Mos Eisley and altered with her own brand of genius. 

Stage 2: Rolled out of bed with a splitting headache, hit the floor, got up and out in time to watch Din Djarin set off down the mountain in a cloud of sand. The only consolation was that he apparently wasn’t a figure of Cobb’s imagination; last night hadn’t been an unusually vivid and confusing dream. 

But. He still hadn’t received an explanation for the visit and was impatiently waiting for one good reason not to blast the Mando point-blank once he returned from his little illicit joyride. If he returned. If he wasn’t lying dead in the desert somewhere. 

Cobb scowled at the remaining stranger in his home, blast Mando for dumping his bounty in Cobb’s lap. Well, that does it then. He placed the bowl down with a clatter and wished he had the foresight to plonk the blaster on the table, an object that carried a little bit more weight. In more than one sense of the word.

”I’ve been the marshal of this town for the last five years,” he informed the stranger. ”It's my business to know your business here, or we’re gonna have a problem. So…” He gestured for the large man to begin. 

Boba Fett’s teeth glinted in an awful attempt at being accommodating. His food crunched when he ate, giving Cobb an image of a scurrier rat being grinded to death between the maws of a sandtusker _. I liked the last_ _friend better,_ Cobb thought, remembering the kid with bitter longing. 

“He will tell you that he’s in _bas’lan shev’la._ ”

Boba took the Mando’a in his mouth with the same casual detachment and lack of respect he showed his breakfast. He never had much desire to learn the language and never would—why would he prance around speaking the tongue of a people who despised his very existence? He cut the other man off before he could ask what it meant. “There’s one thing the Mandos love more than war and that translates roughly to ‘strategic disappearance’. ‘Hiding in the sewers’ is another, alternative translation.” 

He didn’t sound like he was harboring much love for the Mandalorians. Cobb found it difficult to put the pieces of information together: why would Din choose a travel companion with an apparent disregard for his customs? Barring that he knew where their views differed. 

“Why is he in _bas_... in hiding?” Cobb asked, fingers tightening in his palm as another image occured, this one a clear and bright memory of Din relaxing forward to accept the beskar helmet from Cobb, allowing his gentle and thoughtful personality to transfer through the gloved hands and thick suit. Cobb was overwhelmed out of nowhere, unsure how to proceed and not wanting it to end. He remembered vividly how Din had grabbed his hand in a sure gesture of comradery and _thank you_. 

_What did you get yourself caught up in?_ The feeling welling in his gut told Cobb that there were a lot more to this than the stranger was prepared to share. “Who’s after him?”

Boba leaned back with a content grunt, stretching the twisted scar tissue in his back. _Interesting_ , he thought, how the marshal was squirming on the gaffi-hook by the mere mention of Din Djarin in danger. 

“No use losing sleep over this, marshal. No one’s after him.”  
No one, and _everyone_. From what he heard, Din and the exiled former Mand’alor had parted under less than ideal circumstances. Boba couldn’t care less about the internal disputes amongst the ever disputing Mandalorians—but he could make sure to benefit from the chasm. 

Actually… he might as well have some fun with it, seeing as he was here.

“He is merely avoiding the greatest fear of all Mandalorian men: the wrath of a Mandalorian woman.” 

A telling twitch in the marshal’s cheek. _Ah_ , Boba thought, _got’cha_. He was well aware of the fact that they shouldn’t really be here. The dried-up river valley was a crappy site to defend should they be tracked down and found. The homestead was embedded in a corner—it was like Vanth was begging to be crushed. Din seemed like a man able to make well thought out decisions. Maybe Boba had been wrong about him, and it was only by luck and the assistance of others that got him out of the traps he stepped in. On the other hand, Din’s ability to forge connections with the right allies hinted at a tactical sensitivity comparable to a general’s. 

Boba observed the marshal with mirth. Whether it was Din Djarin’s _excellent_ judge of character or his cock that brought them to Mos Pelgo, Boba was confident that he would find out with minimum effort. 

He made a big show of rising from his chair. “Din told me you have a basement stocked with scrap. Do you mind if I take a look? I need to make certain modifications to my speeder.” _To fit the gaffi stick and cycle rifle to the body. And… some other, new technical inventions he might have pilfered off Bo-Katan and her snotty entourage._

“He told you that?” The marshal’s bafflement was genuine. Genuinely embarrassing. 

Boba arched his brow. “He says that you can give the Jawas a run for their credits.”

He made it sound like he didn’t know a particle about the Jawas’ trading customs. Let the marshal think Boba Fett didn’t know this planet better than he knew his own belt pouch. 

Cobb shrugged, regaining his equilibrium. “What can I say. I have a soft spot for antiques,” he said with a nod at Boba’s armor. 

Was that a quip on Boba’s expense? He might enjoy the marshal’s company after all. “I have yet to test the integrity of the new coat,” Boba lied. “Test my patience and I will.” 

*  
  


Din arrived to the canyon in time for Boba Fett to put the appropriate pressure (well, to test the maximum resistance by using blunt force) to his new and improved armor. Armor that Cobb Vanth now was wearing, with added parts salvaged from his basement; armor that was the thin layer protecting the bones in his body from shattering under the viciously efficient blows dealt out by the gaffi stick in Boba’s hands. 

“Dank _farrik_ ,” Din swore and pushed the engine to its limit. Every grunt and gasp of pain from the combatants were amplified in his long range listening device. Not that Fett was the least out of breath. Cobb on the other hand, was doubled-over in the sand with his arm pressed to his chest. 

On Tython, Din had witnessed first-hand the damage those blows caused. In the hands of Fett the gaderffii went from Tusken everyday tool to a torture device; every hit a combustion of force enough to ram through a Stormtrooper suit. Why Vanth thought he could survive the fight decked out like he’d robbed a droid blind… Din would never know unless he got there in time. 

He might’ve jumped over the front forks of the speeder. He met Fett with the beskar spear in hand and parried the blow before it became another hit to the marshal’s shoulder. 

Boba Fett was a strong man, but Din didn’t have to rely on physical strength to deflect the gaffi. He held his position between the two combatants; pushed back; challenged Fett to fight him instead. It didn’t feel much different from the training in the covert. Paz Visla was Boba’s size, and Din was able to take him 50/50 of the times. 

Boba circled him with a small curl in the corner of his mouth, encouraging Din to get his feet moving; to get his head in the game. Din was more than willing to throw down, but he was distracted by Vanth at his back. He parried and ducked to avoid his head being crushed by Fett’s vicious attack, glancing back through the helmet’s enhanced visual field to run check on Cobb and the injuries he might have sustained.

A lapse in judgement—he knew. He left himself unnecessarily open, inviting Boba to ram his shoulder into his ribs and pick him off the ground like he was weightless. Din got his breath punched out of him a second time when he landed on his back. 

Boba slammed the gaffi stick down in his chest, the blow deflected somewhat by Din throwing up his arms in time. He pulled the end of the stick over his head and slammed his foot between Boba’s legs. 

Fett chuckled, guttural and mocking. He wore beskar-threaded protection and yes, admittedly he knew how he was perceived and didn’t hesitate to put on a show. He feigned a shift in mood when Din reached for ihis vibroblade—Boba slammed the blade from Din’s hand with enough accuracy to save the bones but leave the hurt and pushed the gaffi-spike between his fingers until Din was nailed to the ground. 

“Why don’t you use the saber to strike me down? I give you permission.” 


	4. The Stifficulty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We meet new OC:s, and Cobb breaks up a fight between two seasoned bounty hunters. He’s obviously not in love with one of them.

There was a reason Jo Fiamme parked her shit in front of the door when the Owen was on. That’s the oven with the capital O and w replacing the v, all right, the industrial oven that was dumped here a few years back when the Red Keys pretended to be a legit mining company. A team effort of jerbas and ranch hands later and Owen had a new home and a new owner in 19 year old Fiamme. 

The precautions felt justified when the morning after the marshal’s return to town, Jo’s adoptive brother Rosht started pelting on the door. 

Rosht was a pestilent little dung bug, but right then in that moment Jo somehow knew that this interruption wasn’t one of Rosht’s schemes to lure her outside to, let’s see, what was it the last time, give him permission to hitch a ride to Anchorhead with the Jawas. Rosht was one of the countless child soldiers the galaxy had left to rot after the Galactic civil war officially ended, and apparently it was ingrained in his veins to test the boundaries of his mortal lifespan every waking minute of every day.

Jo powered down the gyrotron beam and pulled the protective visor from her face, tensing as her brother’s emphatic wheezing permeated the door: “There’s a blast-off at the marshal’s! Jo, there’s a fight!” 

They all loved the marshal and Jo in particular would defend the man’s life to her death. Rosht felt the same, although Jo would prefer for the sake of his safety that he didn’t. 

She heaved the crates back to the corner where they belonged and gave the door a decisive kick—couldn’t use her hands because she was holding her latest invention across her chest. 

“Start the speeder, Roshty.” She loaded the first cartridge with a satisfying click.   
  


*  
  


Din’s ribs ached beautifully where the gaffi-spike hit him square in the sternum of his chest-plate and he might be wheezing, but that was a natural part of fighting and he was used to it; it usually meant he was busy getting the job done. Fett, towering with the stark-blue sky behind him, pressed his boot to Din’s throat to further enhance the effect of a cut off oxygen supply. Din groaned at the kink in his neck from the last time he got pummeled and looked at the gaffi-spike penetrating his glove. His sensors picked up the presence of blood but he didn’t think he lost his hand—this was a training exercise to Fett. _Had to be,_ Din thought with a cough, _or my sheb is owned._

When Boba removed his boot Din lifted his head with feigned difficulty and peered at Boba. Bringing the older man to Tatooine was a risk, Din knew that from the start, and now he was beginning to see him in a new, brighter light. Was it just a crass coincidence that Boba offered to tag along to the dust bowl where Fett must have lost his armor? There was a strange pull to the planet that included Fett and it wasn’t gravitational. Boba was as slippery as a neimoidian dipped in oil, and Din felt his hackles rise. 

“I am not going to use the kad, Fett.” He pretended to tug at his hand, which led the old man to lift the spike rather than to risk Din shredding his tendons. “Your armor won’t last so what’s the point of the exercise? It cuts through every metal that isn’t pure beskar.”

Boba hammered his fist against his chest. “The point of this exercise was to test the integrity of the armor, and now: the wielder of the darksaber. Are you ready for round two, little mand’alor?” His browless eyebrows rose tauntingly. 

Test the integrity of the wearer more like, Din thought with a silent laugh. “You don’t mean that.” 

“You don’t think you can take me?” Boba stepped back with his massive arms hanging by his sides to give the impression that he was giving Din a decent berth. He didn’t interfer when Din got to his feet. 

Din drew a slow breath, tasted salt in his mouth and went for the darksaber in his belt, just to test Boba’s reaction. He knew he shouldn’t use the sword—not because he didn’t know what the ownership entailed, but because he didn’t _want_ to win with a weapon in hand that wasn’t his to claim. Couldn’t hurt to test it, though.

There was a promising sound emanating from the hilt when he activated the saber, along with a vibration traveling through his arm. 

Boba nodded in appreciation. “It will be like shooting hutts in a vac tube.” 

The long black blade gleamed with light shining from its core, briefly illuminating the inscription along its side. Then it powered down like a malfunctioning piece of skug-junk he would expect from the last bin in the furthest dust-corner in the post-Imperial repository. 

Din looked at the few sparks raining from the saber hilt, wafting towards the sand like scorched sand gnats. He felt relieved. He felt like he could breathe again.

Boba frowned in concern and made a crude gesture with his hand. “Have you been herky-jerking that rod to exhaustion?” 

Din turned the handle in his hand, an half-shebbed attempt to visually diagnose the little stick’s problem. “I think it needs a tune up.” 

He tossed it aside. Wherever it landed, it was followed by the vibroblade, the blaster and the spear. After a short deliberation, Din removed the vambraces as well. He threw the gloves on the ground in front of Boba and brought his fists up in a boxing stance. He made sure that his spurring tone didn’t get lost in the voice amplifier on its way to Boba’s ears and his ego. “Chin up, Fett. Let’s make it a fair fight. No accessories. You look like you could use the exercise.” 

Cara had taught him her techniques and a few extra features; things she added and refined throughout her own career. He wasn’t exaggerating when he thought he had been trained by the best dropper turned marshal out there. He had observed Fett as well, knew he favored a few moves such as the throws. Now when Din knew that he wanted to see if he could find a way around them.

He licked his lips and noticed distantly that he was sweating inside the hod. Worst case scenario: the air had stopped circulating, the hit from the gaffi disrupting something in the hardware that was hanging on by a thread since the dark trooper had mangled it with its fist. He was behind on his maintenance but that didn’t change his motivation—he was more than ready to do what Vanth called _laying down the law._

_*  
_

The usual reasons for people picking a fight in Mos Pelgo was petty disagreements over either blackmarket goods or gambling, fueled by drink, spice or smoke. Cobb would flaunt the blastpower by his hip or in rare cases: fire a warning shot (he was reluctant to do that when the weekay bartender started to demand compensation for the holes in his ceiling). 

Cobb had even seen his fair share of arena fights. The Hutt cartels loved them and Cobb had on one occasion been an involuntary contestant… he thought he was going to bite the dust permanently, to be honest. The scene currently in front of him was something else, though. Din was broad shouldered and bulky but he never grew lazy: he sucker-punched Boba repeatedly with ruthless force, then wheeled around his own axis the next time Boba lifted him and wrestled the larger man to his knees with a maneuver that he seemed to invent mid-air. It wasn’t graceful, not in the slightest, but it worked. (He looked damn fine. Just an observation. Apart from the chokehold. Remind Cobb to never let Din put him in a chokehold.)

He was contemplating how to put an end to the fight without putting an end to himself when the two rust buckets clashed and rolled over the ledge like a flung boulder i.e. a couple of idiots. 

Cobb sighed in defeat and walked after them. “Back to Day 0 of No murders in Mos Pelgo.” 

He caught movement in his peripheral vision and looked up to see Jo and, darn blazes, Rosht climbing off their speeder. The short and robust Trandoshan boy gaped at the spectacle beneath him. Jo relieved the speeder of a specific kind of cargo. 

Cobb waited politely until Jo and the boy convened with him. “Is that the—?” 

“Yes. I wanted to finish it before you got back.”

“Can I see?” 

Jo handed over the modified pulse rifle and watched Cobb familiarize himself with it with a determined frown. The whirring sound of the start-up made them both flinch. 

“I’ll tell you this, Jo.” The marshal put the piston to his shoulder and aimed. “I’d be travelling across the parcec and not find better target practice.” 

*

Din lifted his hod an inch and took a big gulp of fresh air. For a moment the lower half of his face was exposed—fingers crossed that there wasn’t a gawker with a magni-binoc out there on the sand dune. 

He pressed the malfunctioning helmet back down and rolled to the side to avoid Boba’s attack. Everything was slowing down and vacillating in and out focus due to the lack of oxygen. He felt like he was spinning on a pin; like his head was a hot vacuum balloon pressing against the roof of the helmet with no room to escape. Boba strided closer, the canyon and the sky swirling around him. Din held up an forearm in a defensive maneuver—and got electrocuted. 

Boba Fett had the sense to turn his head in time to watch the marshal aim at him with the pulse rifle. And to register the two locals in the audience. 

*

Vanth sent Rosht to collect the rope from the speeder (good for when he had to rescue folks who fell down abandoned mining shafts). He and Jo made their way down the decline to check on the Mandos. Both of them where moving: Boba sat up and threw Vanth and the woman a look that could’ve burned through the planet’s core _and_ retain power to exit the Tatoo system. 

Din was on his back and went from unconscious to kicking, boots slipping in the sand as he pried his fingers underneath the helmet. At last he tipped his head back and inhaled desperately, like he’d been deprived from oxygen in there. 

Cobb sucked in a breath at the flash of bare skin; human skin. And a mouth, wet with condensation and sweat. He hadn’t known Din for long, but he had never stopped wondering why Din, not once, bothered to show his face during his last stay in Mos Pelgo. 

Jo gave Cobb an odd look. “Marshal? How do you want to proceed?” 

She didn’t like the face of the bald man and the look he gave her, like he contemplated roasting her over a fire and eating her for dinner. 

Cobb squatted beside Din and hummed. He did a brave attempt to keep the grin banished from the corners of his mouth but he couldn’t quite make it. 

“Are you all right?” He dared himself to pat Din’s knee. 

Din bent his neck and gave Cobb an accusing face through the visor. For some reason he pulled his shirt further out to cover his mouth. “What was that for?” 

“I told you. I’m the one who tells folks what to do around here, and I have officially banned manslaughter from the Guermessa entertainment roster.”

“You’ve got the nerve.” Din moaned softly and let his head tudd back. He gestured with a dangling finger: “It malfunctioned. I can’t breathe with it.” 

He sounded exhausted. Cobb’s pulse picked up a notch when he noticed just how different Din sounded without the voice amplifier. His vocal cords sounded underused, and his register was hoarse and hesitant, like he wasn’t sure how to continue the conversation. 

“We’ll have to fix that.” Cobb glanced at Jo, who was posturing with the pulse rifle in front of the scornful other bounty hunter. It looked like he had just asked where she’d got that, regarding her with a mix of suspicion and reluctant professional acknowledgment. 

“Are _you_ all right?” 

Cobb looked back to discover that Din’s T-visor was attentively tilted in his direction. Din gave an additional tilt towards Cobb’s arm. The one that hurt like a motherfucker, pardon the language. Cobb placed his hand over the bruising to remind himself that the arm wasn’t broken. 

“It’s just bruises. Boba knows what he’s doing. I bet he can catch a sand gnat with a pair of tweezers on the first try.”

“We should test that out.” Din laughed quietly. He covered his face with his hand and sat up, turning his shoulder to Cobb instead of accepting the marshal’s offer to drag him up. 

“How about we save the experiments for a later date?” Cobb decided. 


	5. The dust crepes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I’m writing a victorian novel, y’all. Save a horse, hold a cowboy’s hand.  
> (There’s also some Aftermath inspiration in this story. This is me world exploring)

Introductions were in order. “Jo, Mando—over there, is Fett.” Cobb pinched his nose bridge and wondered just how huge a welcome parade Din would receive once the news reached the town of the returning hero. 

Jo extended a hand, thus conveying a higher regard than she did her customers in the Mos Eisley spaceports. “There’s a lot of folks around here who would like to shake your hand, Mandalorian. It’d be an honor to be among the first.” 

“You work for the marshal?” The mando was as polite as ever, but he sounded a bit strangled. The T-visor was once again firmly on his head, concealing any distinguishing features.

 _“Pffs._ No.” She snorted and rearranged the rifle to hang off her back. “I have an apprenticeship in Mos Eisley and I do freelance repairs at the spaceports that barely pay for the fuel it takes to go there and back. I melt rock to extract minerals which I sell on the black market. The surplus goes into my own projects… the credits feed my little brothers and sisters. When do you think I got the time to be the deputy?”

“Hey now!” Cobb put his hands on his hips and arched his eyebrows in what he would like to call a mildly authoritative manner. “Can we maybe not talk about this when I’m within earshot? You know, as a lawman in active capacity,” he added to soften the blow from Din’s judging look. 

Din peered over his shoulder at the speeder—itching to drive towards the sunsets? Cobb felt a rare jolt of fear at the thought of the Mandalorian leaving. “Jo here is the best engineer from Abrion to Varristad.” He planted a fatherly hand on her shoulder. _Distract him._

“I’m sure you are.” The Mando stalked off, armor puffing dust out of every crack and cranny.

“What’s with him?” Jo wondered.

“Well…” Vanth said with a pinched brow. It physically hurt but quitting habits was hard and this was not the day to do it. “See he is choking to death at the moment. I reckon his solution is to simply walk away from the fact.”

“Huh. Very unconventional.”

“Indeed it is, but someone was bound to try it.”

* 

Din pawed, no, searched methodically through the saddlebags on his, _hrm,_ Vanth’s speeder. 

“Can you fix it?” The marshal’s well-meaning, increasingly concerned inquiries drifted in the breeze. “Mando, are you listening?”

Din inhaled precious trapped air. “ _Yes_.”

Bic ni skana’din, he knew how to fix his own damn equipment. He just needed to find his repair kit, which he stashed… somewhere here. Never left without it, so... In his mind he went over the necessary steps to locate the problem once he cracked open the chest. It could be anything, from a simple fan malfunction to a broken unit inside the central module in his chest-plate. It didn’t matter. He’d know how to fix it not from the trial and error the Razor crest suffered, but from years of tutelage. The Armorer and her Techs had walked every ade in the covert through the maintenance and repair protocols until he was able to recite them in his sleep. He _dreamt_ in circuit schematics. He wasn’t supposed to need the assistance of an aruetii mechanic. 

“Jo repairs droids for a living, did ya not hear?” Cobb put a hand on his shoulder, bright eyes shining with worry. “Let her help you before you choke to death on your own prejudices.”

Jo raised her hands. “You want me to fix that? That’s a whole different kettle, marshal. He’s definitely not wearing a vaporator.” She was only half kidding.

“Aw see now you’re just being difficult, young lady. Don’t you forget the last time I was forced to inform your mother.”

“You wouldn’t _dare.”_

Din snorted. Under different circumstances he would’ve hired the woman on the sole basis of her ability to make Vanth’s eyelid twitch at random intervals. He knew and appreciated the type: the freelancing mechanics that hung around the spaceports to offer their services to the arriving ships, eager to strike a deal that would put food on the table for their families. Not everyone was as fortunate as Peli, or to be hired by her.

The ground undulated, and he grabbed the handle of the speeder to steal another breath of fresh air from the breeze. He knew he could put an end to this long winded distraction and relocate to the safety of Cobb’s basement, if he could just find the repair kit. He blinked a couple of times and tried to re-focus. Did he leave it behind on Boba’s ship? An image of Fett fiddling with his own repairs during the last stopover flashed through his mind. No, he couldn’t have been that out of it...

“I mean, if you want, I’m sure I’m capable of checking your diagnostics, Mando.” Jo frowned at his chest-plate. “I bet your central module is under there, keeps your air vents running… what else? It connects to the vambraces _and_ the helmet?” 

He didn’t respond. He’d prefer that a local tatooinian didn’t know how the module in his chest was responsible for about fifty different units including the flamethrowers, translator, the comm links, the—

His HUD went dark. As in completely opaque the way it was supposed to do when its sensors detected lightsource damaging to human retinas. 

Which wasn’t the damn case now but he was still blind as a rathtar. 

He inhaled and blew hot air out of his nose. _Farrik.  
  
_

*

A less attentive observer would’ve missed the subtle change in the Mando’s posture. The flinch; the little slump of his shoulder, and then the abrupt stillness. He was leaning his hip against the speeder, still forming a flattering profile against the desert as he continued to sort through the content of his satchel in a slower, patient pace. 

Cobb signaled to Jo to give them a minute alone. Ignoring his self-preservation instincts he sidled up close to the mando and lowered his register to the _I plead to the remains of your common sense, you mulish son of a hutt,_ a frequency that he used to dial in just for Din Djarin and nervous ronto colts: “Ventilation systems, vaporators, we’ve all learned to operate those before we learned how to walk. Din, be reasonable for a second! Don’t act like that rust-bucket has fried your last good circuits and let a native Tatooinian do her job.” 

Din’s hands ceased the rummage. Cobb was drawn to the wrists that no longer wore the vambraces, shocked by how distinctly _real_ they were. Twisting lines of recognizable human muscles discernable right there under the once dark sleeves. Sand and dirt clinging to the fabric, a camouflaging hue the envy of every Tusken and Jawa, and man worth his Great Chott salt. Cobb had known all along there was just a mortal man under there, but knowing and _seeing_ where different things. Impacted differently. 

Din turned to look him square in the eye, although his aim was slightly off. “It’s not a droid.”  
He sounded pissed off. Hurt? Resigned? His hand rested on the speeder, for once without the protected layer of the glove. Water and bacta should go on those knuckles and stay there for a while, but Cobb hadn’t the strength in him to move. He stared at the tan hand and back to Din’s face—the everdark visor.

A quiet, indiscernible curse escaped the hod. “Fine.”

Cobb swallowed. “Fine? As in..?”

“I’ll pay to utilize her shop. Would you drive me there? Please?”

Cobb’s eyes narrowed at this inconsistency, this foreign plea. Not that he didn’t celebrate victories, but he needed to understand it. “That’s strange. A moment ago you were the greatest bantha’s asshole to ever come out of the Jundlands and now you’re begging?”

He couldn’t read the other man’s face but he was holding himself awkwardly. Din’s hand trailed the saddle of the speeder, bumping Cobb’s wrist as by accident and grabbing a hold of his sleeve. A confirming tug before he retreated. No comment on the blood left on the shirt.

 _Oh_ , Cobb thought. _He can’t see?_ “My stars. You’re blind as a miraluka, aren’t you?”

“I’m not blind.” The visor remained aggressively withholding but Cobb was prepared to bet his non-existing retirement fund that the man was pouting. 

“Oh, don’t feed me dust crepes, darlin’,” Cobb said, tone comforting,“You know I once arrested a peeping tountoun who claimed he was Miraluka? I told him it takes more than a blindfold and a tan to fool me, and his acting wasn’t compensating for the rest… Can you count my fingers?” Cobb tapped two fingers against the T. 

Those were predictably caught in a sure grip. “My motion sensors are still functional, you _utreekov._ ”

The fond quality of Din’s voice transgressed all of the marshal’s safety protocols and exited through his toes as well as his scalp.  
Din’s fingers slipped down Cobb’s wrist in a soft apology, touching his palm and the calluses there. It robbed Cobb off his breath when the fingers reached his own, checking the resistance and the give. _A lot of give,_ Cobb thought through the fizzling crescendo burning through his body, gathering in his cheeks.

Din’s fingers folded almost reassuringly between Cobb’s, a tightening that was felt, and Cobb’s mouth went dry as the wastes after the Great draught. He wanted to feel Din’s hand rest on the nape of his neck. Touch Din’s cheek and trace the lines of the unknown map that he’d never touched but wanted to for a long time and still kept returning to in his thoughts, so why couldn’t they just—just do that?

“You left it in the camp.” Boba Fett reappeared with a mortally curious Rosht in tow. 

The senior man smirked at their compromising position and tossed the repair kit at Din, passing on his dispassionate judgement with it. “How you’ve managed to survive this long is a great mystery.”

Din caught the satchel in mid-air when Cobb was still blinking at the disruption. A buzz lingered inside the marshal’s hand, a longing. He shook it discreetly behind his back.

*

Nerves began to kick in the closer Vanth got to Jo’s family farm. Indiscernible faces turned at the sound of the speeders, and shadows conglomerated and dispersed like the undulating of a flea-ridden blanket. 

“We’ve got company,” he warned, keeping his gaze glued at the crates and out of order machines scattered around the property. “Keep your blaster holstered and let me do the talking.”

“How many?” The seasoned bounty hunter tensed predictably, hand moving down to the hilt of Cobb’s own weapon.

Cobb smacked at the hand. “What did I tell you? You wouldn’t stand a chance against this band of desert rogues. The height of the mighty Jawa, the ravenous hunger of the scurrier.” He chuckled. 

A long, nose-pinching pause from the back of the speeder. “...Children?”

“The school is out for the day, I believe.” 

_“The school—_ I could’ve disintegrated them.” 

“Nah, you’re good. You wouldn’t hit a bantha’s ass unless it sat on ya.” Another chuckle. He felt unreasonably elated without knowing why. Was a beautiful day, wasn’t it. 

Boba reluctantly dismounted his speeder, knowing he was the epicenter of the ambush. The property was no more than a scrapyard, the girl’s workshop no more than a shed. It seemed to border another, larger farmstead as well as the school.

He head-counted five adults, throwing worried glances over their shoulders as they were headed to a shift change out on the fields. The children were lousy snipers: he marked down every single one of their hidden routes through the scrap heaps and assumed guard position by the speeder bikes, leaning on the gaderffii. _Just like old times._ He growled at the trandoshan boy when he ventured near but got disappointed: the kid had grown increasingly bold since the first scare. He sat down beside Boba with a long metal stick in his hand. It looked like he had tried to replicate the gaderffii. Boba tried twice as hard to banish that thought. 

“I’m Rosht. I live here, me and these Imperial academy rejects,” the boy joked with a lopsided smile, revealing the uneven rows of his reptilian teeth. He swept the stick generously over the ground, encompassing the rest of the runts. ”The Ouslands adopted us. That’s my mother, Sigrez Ousland over there with the vapors.”

Boba saw a homely human woman. He knew the galaxy was littered with child labor during and after the war. This woman most likely knew the locations of an active site or two. Not that it was any of his business. _The Empire,_ he thought, _it never left._ “Did your mother raise you to be lazy? You should be out there working with her, and not give out information to strangers.” 

The boy laughed. “I will. Don’t you worry ‘bout that. We are just waiting to be fed. Then we head out.” 

Boba closed his eyes against the sunlight. “This will be soon?”

“Who knows.” Rosht shrugged. He didn’t mind the wait. “So I told you my name. What’s yours?” 

Boba didn’t bother to answer. The Trandoshans he had met over the years all had been athletic and ruthless in their endeavors. Natural born hunters, natural born killers. Some species had the job cut out for them. This spawn on the other hand, was short likely due to malnutrition at an early hatchling stage, and looked like he would start to wheeze and pant from the slightest climb or run. The trandoshan Boba once knew like he knew the back of his hand, the trandoshan who had trained him by his own yardstick, would’ve swallowed the kid whole and picked his teeth with what’s left. 

“I knew someone who looked like you. A bounty hunter, ruthless as they come… He would’ve found the most painful way to flay your skin, and hung you to dry in the cargo hold.” He turned the gaffi-spike to face the child. A preview. “I have my own way of doing things… leave a neat pile of your skulls over there on that hill if you ever scavenge something of mine, understood?” 

Rosht visibly paled under the scales. Boba was pleased. “Now go help your mother before I give you a third nostril.” 


End file.
